


Breathing Space

by Kaz_of_Carinthia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_of_Carinthia/pseuds/Kaz_of_Carinthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case leaves Sherlock injured and in need of his doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Space

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by legions of tremendously talented fanfic writers on Ao3 and elsewhere, as well as an irrational but enduring love of these characters.
> 
> Not beta-ed. Comments welcome. 
> 
> I do not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creators.

Sleep is elusive. Weary, his mind crashes blindly against the sharp rocks of uncomfortable thoughts. Again and again, it now feels as bruised and battered as his ribs, after their earlier encounter with an unfriendly boot.

A deep sigh, a hiss of pain at the sharp reminder of the reality of fresh fractures. Stupid. _Stupid!_ He should not have refused the earlier offer of assistance. At least then, he would have the brief pleasure of John’s fingers gently examining his ribs, John’s kind, concerned attention focused entirely on him.

But no. Stubborn and proud, and above all – scared, he had impatiently waved John off. Disappeared into his bedroom with a curt “Good Night”, forsaking even the comfort of a cup of tea in his hurry to get away.

John had been humming, something cheerful, vaguely familiar – no doubt pedestrian – and hopelessly out of tune, as he made himself a cup of tea, which he carefully carried up to his bedroom. A man of habit, he sipped at his tea while reading an article or two in the latest medical journal, then he undressed, changed into his pyjamas, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash away the invisible accumulation of London on his skin. The old boiler groaned, as water warmed in the pipes.

Minutes later, all is silent. Except for Sherlock’s laboured breathing, which rushes inordinately loudly in his ears. Maybe pain somehow amplifies sound? In the near total darkness of his room, Sherlock closes his eyes to concentrate more fully on the quality of the discomfort that accompanies his in- and exhalations. As his rib cage expands on an in-breath a searing streak of bright, sharp pain flares along the 9th and 10th vertebrochondral ribs on the right. Briefly suspended, as he cautiously holds his breath for a beat, the pain dulls and darkens, then blossoms wider as the air in his lungs begins the return journey and his chest deflates. The pain is really rather intense, and will almost certainly keep restorative sleep at bay. But it is also curiously distracting, and for this, Sherlock is grateful.

Seventeen minutes later, the precise quality and category of his suffering holds substantially less fascination for the exhausted detective. Fatigued, unhappy, and in pain, Sherlock cannot prevent a heartfelt groan from escaping. He immediately bites his lip in punishment for this unguarded moment, but also to prevent a second groan from following – there is, after all, some measure of relief to be found in audible expressions of this kind.

Above him, two bare feet softly thud against the floor as they are lowered to the ground from the bed. The door knob turns too soon to allow for a dressing gown or slippers to be donned. No lights are switched on as John moves sure-footedly across the landing, past the bathroom and down the stairs. The kitchen tap and the kettle remain silent. There is a whisper of a creak of floorboards as John hesitates just beyond the door of Sherlock’s bedroom, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Fascinated and simultaneously terrified, Sherlock is silently willing John to move, move forward, to break through the defences, just damn well come in and take what is his, what has always been his. But he will not, he cannot say it. Not out loud, which would make it real.

John’s fingers tap against the wood of the door. “Sherlock? Are you ok?” He risks a noncommittal grunt. “Can I come in? I thought I heard…”. Another grunt, though this one could, with sufficient imagination – or determination – be interpreted as vaguely affirmative.

The door opens to admit John, or rather, the outline of John, as there is barely enough light coming in from the hallway to distinguish between the solid, reassuring mass of John’s body and the wall of Sherlock’s bedroom behind him. Movement brings pain, so Sherlock remains very still, but angles his face towards his flatmate and raises one eyebrow in what he hopes is an eloquent question.

“I couldn’t sleep, then I thought I heard you moan in pain and I just …” John halts, he is feeling self-conscious, he thinks he is trespassing, unwelcome, and he will go, and with him all hope of comfort and care. Willing himself to speak, Sherlock takes a breath in preparation, and immediately winces. In two short strides, John is at his bedside. “Left or right side?” he asks, folding back the duvet, pushing Sherlock’s pyjama shirt up and off his abdomen and chest.

“Damn, can’t see a thing. I am going to turn the light on”, he warns, giving Sherlock time to close his eyes tight against the sight of John’s worried frown as he takes in the dark bruise already spreading across his lower ribs, his fingers carefully pressing and soothing, feeling the extent of the damage. Keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, Sherlock focuses on those probing fingers, on their warmth and their confident movements across his body. “Why didn’t you say anything? This must be really uncomfortable.” Sherlock merely shakes his head. “Any other injuries I should know about?” Fond exasperation sweetens John’s question.  “No, just the ribs”, he manages to say, though he sounds breathless.

In doctor mode, John administers painkillers, then produces strips of soft fabric, with which he efficiently binds Sherlock’s chest. The edges of his pain are already dulling, and the stabilizing support of the bandaging makes breathing easier. Sleep beckons, but Sherlock’s exhausted mind needs to tell John something first. “John”, he murmurs, “John. Such a good doctor.” John smiles as he re-fastens the buttons on Sherlock's pyjama shirt, then eases him into a more comfortable position and watches his eyelids slide closed. “Pain’s better”, the patient rumbles, as John tenderly strokes a curl off his forehead. “Better when you are here”, a softly whispered confession at the very edge of sleep. “Stay”, relieved of the burden of consciousness, Sherlock’s heart speaks directly to John. John stays.

~~~

The bruise is fading. Deep purple and blue hues have given way to sickly greens and yellows of lesser intensity. Sherlock shudders as John’s fingers trace the edges across his chest and around the side towards his back. “Still painful?”, John asks, his sleep-roughened voice full of concern.

Sherlock shakes his head, then ducks it forward to plant a soft kiss on John’s collarbone. “Not at all.” Another kiss follows to John’s chest. “I have an excellent doctor.” Sherlock presses his ear against the imprint of his lips and listens to the sound of John’s steady heart.


End file.
